Jesus of Suburbia
by The-Flame-Faerie
Summary: Harry Potter's always been seen as the saviour of the wizarding world... their idea of Jesus, if you will. So, now seventeen, how is Harry coping with the pressure?


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**Chapter One: **Jesus of Suburbia

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"Ruddy Boy! Get up!" I hear his fat palm smashing against my door. A groan escapes my lips, and I sit up slowly.

Today, I'm 17.

For any ordinary teenager, that's not much. But then again, I'm no ordinary teenage boy.

My name's Potter. Harry James Potter, to be more exact. Some of you may have heard of me. Maybe I should clear a few things up.

Yes, I am a wizard.

and Yes, I'm here to save the fucking world.

Maybe I should explain.

When I was a year old, my parents were murdered by a "seriously evil wizard" named Voldemort. And then he turned on me. But I wasn't killed. Why? My mother's love saved me from his rage. The curse backfired on him, and he disappeared from the face of the planet for a while. All I got was a lightning shaped scar on my forehead above my emerald green eyes.

I was sent to live with the Dursleys - My Aunt, Uncle and their fat, spoilt son, Dudley. To say I grew up in a loving household would be half right...

... just not loving towards me.

My Aunt and Uncle knew what I was before I did, and they hated me for it. The Dursleys were into the whole "normal" life thing. I was like a cancer, in their eyes, to their perfectly functioning body of normality. I never understood why they hated me so much when I was a child. I always thought it was something I'd done. I tried so hard to work to please them, but the better I did, the more the loathing grew. Finally, I just gave up, and submitted to the beatings, name-callings and emotional abuse. After all, they were my family, and I had nowhere else to go.

Then, when I was 11, some strange things started happening. I'd always known I was a little different from the other kids, especially when things happened around me that I couldn't explain. I didn't know how I'd end up on the roof-top when I was being chased, or how my hair grew back so fast whenever Aunt Petunia had hacked at it because I "looked so scruffy". But then letters appeared for me.

_Mr. H. Potter  
__The Cupboard Under the Stairs  
__Privet Drive  
__Little Whinging_

My Uncle tried to hide them from me - keep me away from knowing the truth about myself. We'd thought he'd completely lost it. But then, the night of my 11th birthday, we were visited by a large man.

"Rubeus 'Agrid, at yer service,"

Hagrid. Keeper of the Keys at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, and the man who educated me on what I really was.

To say I was furious with my Aunt and Uncle from keeping the truth from me would have been an understatement. I was livid. It was then I began to wonder what else they'd lied to me about.

Turns out - _everything_.

They'd told me my parents had died in a car crash, that my mother was a freak and my father was unemployed.

Hagrid told a completely different story. He explained the scar, the orphan status, and the simple fact that I was a wizard.

So I went off to Hogwarts that year. I made friends, for the first time in my life, and completed classes on the wonders of Magic.

And, of course, was attacked again by Voldemort. Because no story is ever as simple as "The bad guy dies, and the good little baby lives happily ever after".

Ironically, the same thing happened nearly every year for the next 5 years, but in various forms. My second year, it was the teenage!Voldemort. Fourth, it was classic!Voldemort. Fifth, it was just plain Voldemort, Sixth, he hadn't changed much over the months.

My third year, you ask? I met my Godfather, Sirius Black.

Sirius was my father's best friend from school. He was a wrongly convicted criminal, and we planned - once his name was cleared - for me to move in with him.

But of course, Harry Potter never gets a happy ending.

Sirius was killed in my 5th year at Hogwarts. Right in front of my eyes.

People have a habit of doing that. Fourth year, it was Cedric Diggory... _"Kill the Spare"_. And sixth year, it was the man who I'd admired and respected since I first stepped into Hogwarts Castle. The headmaster, Albus Dumbledore.

Why, you may ask, has all this death happened around me?

A prophecy. A fucking prophecy made before I was even born.

So either Voldemort dies, or I do. It's as simple as that.

Sometimes I wish that this was all just some psychotic dream. That I'll wake up and it was all some land of make-believe, created in my imagination because I forgot to take my ritalin. That no-one knows the name "Harry Potter", and no-one places their faith in a boy who can barely save the ones he loves, let alone the whole fucking universe.

Maybe it's the pressure that they created on me which made me turn to the muggle gang of "freaks and geeks" (as Dudley put it) that lived down the road, both on the street and in an abandoned warehouse. It was there that I met Adie.

Blonde haired, blue eyed "punk" girl, kicked out of her house by her parents because she wasn't "normal".

She and I just "clicked", y'know? It was like she understood me better than anyone else that ever existed - even Ron and Hermione, my two best friends in the whole world.

Adie introduced me to things I'd never dreamed of - the muggle forms of magic: alcohol, cigarettes, cocaine, marijuana, and mind-blowing sex.

I sold what little muggle equipment I could scavage from the Dursleys, and stole the rest to make enough money to keep these habits. Some of the other kids in the group felt sorry for me, and one in particular, a guy named Billie, gave me some of his old clothes.

Because I was so short and scrawny from years of malnutrition, they fit perfectly.

Gradually - through wizarding means, and charity, I emptied my wardrobe of the old, baggy clothes Dudley had "given" me, and filled it with clothes reminiscent of the style the gang wore.

They accepted me, when no other muggles would. I'm greatful for everything they'd done and shown me.

.1.1.1.1.

Now I'm dressed in my skinny black jeans, worn hi-tops, and a black shirt, I'm heading out the front door, and down the road.

I'm going to see Adie.

She promised me something special for my 17th.

I pass an elderly couple, walking up the street.

They eye me up and down and shake their heads.

I roll my own black rimmed eyes. I'm used to the looks now.

But, just in case, I have my wand tucked down the side of my pant-legs.

Now I'm 17, I can legally perform charms outside of school. A simple disallusionment charm works wonders around muggles.

I've debated telling Adie and the others what I really am.

Adie, at least, has the right to know.

Of course, I know, even then, I'll be too weird for the only friends I've made that I'm vaguely sure aren't friends with me only because I'm "The-Boy-Who-Lived".

In the distance, I spy Billie sitting with his guitar, strumming away a simple song by an old muggle Punk band.

Dudley had never been into the "underground" music scene like these guys were. He was always a radio, Pop-music, "Hot 30s" kiddie.

As tough as he talked, Dudley had always (secretly) liked the Pussycat Dolls and stuff Adie and Billie referred to as "Wuss Rock".

Ahead of me, I can see Adie.

She's leaning against a wall, smoking a cigarette.

She raises her hand, and gives me a lazy wave.

Just watching her as I approach, makes me realise how much I'm going to miss Adie when I'm back at Hogwarts.

.1.1.1.1.

I'm standing at Kings Cross Station, Platform's 9 and 10.

I'm staring at the barrier as the clock overhead ticks away.

10 to 10.

I take a deep breath.

I want to see my friends again...

... but the thought of facing another school year - my final school year - is daunting.

I don't want to have to look over my shoulder everywhere I walk, waiting for someone around me to jump out at me and try to kill me.

Or patiently watching, waiting for someone close to me to drop dead, and Voldemort to rise behind them, sadistic grin over his horrifyingly morphed features.

_"Time to Die, Potter..."_

I take a deep breath, and walk through the barrier.

I know that I shouldn't think so morbidly... so vividly about death and destruction.

But I know there's nothing wrong with me for it.

Because he created me.

Secretly, I dream of the final showdown between the two of us.

Voldemort and I, standing on a field scattered with the dead from both sides.

He and I face each other, wands lowered by our sides as we circle.

"Well, Potter, it's come down to this," He'll say, that wicked glint in his blood red eyes, "Ready to fight?"

"You were expecting something different?" I'll smirk, flicking my matted, sweaty and bloody black hair from infront of my green eyes.

"You still stand by your ideals of love, truth and justice then? Huh. Foolish boy, you should know that it is those false hopes that created me,"

"You created me first," and with that, I'll make a spectacular move, and kill him where he stands. (or maybe he'll do me a favour and kill me)

And that's it.

No more pressures to fix the world.

No more second guessing every single decision I make.

No more suspicious glances at every person I meet.

No more fears of being crucified while I sleep by Death Eaters.

Because it'll be all over.

It's so typical that Voldemort created the one that can cause his downfall.

Because I'm the product of his rage. I'm the child born to parents who suffered his wrath, and into a world living in fear of his anger.

But I'm also the offspring of love. My parents love for me saved me and protected me for so long. The love of my friends has kept me going, even when it all seems impossibly dark.

I'm the son of Rage and Love.

The child born to save the world. And the world won't care if I die in the process.

Not if it saves their "normal" lives and lets them live happily ever after.

Yeah, I'm the son of Rage and Love.

I'm the fucking Jesus of Suburbia.

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_**A/N** Yes, the hiatus is still in effect for my major stories. This one, however, I promised myself I'd write, and you can all thank Matthew Bellamy and Billie Joe Armstrong for the fact I have started. Their music got me in the mood to write again - this, at any rate._

_Anyway, I don't own Harry Potter, or the song on which this fiction is based - "Jesus of Suburbia"._

_J.K. Rowling owns the former, and the latter belongs toGreen Day_

_Reviews are highly welcome..._

_...Flames will get you attacked by my rabid sock-monkey..._

_...oh, you all think I'm kidding..._

**_The Flame Faerie_**


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